It's Got to Be Perfect: the memoirs of a modern-day matchmaker

by Haley Hill

  ‘I’m Joanna,’ she interjected, holding out her hand.

  ‘Nick,’ he replied, without taking his eyes from mine.

  ‘Ellie’s not single. Well she might be, but she’s not here as a single. She’s working. I’m single.’

  ‘I’m taken,’ he said.

  ‘Oh right. Well, why are you here then?’ she asked.

  ‘The DJ. Love his work,’ he said just as S club 7’s “Don’t Stop Movin” bellowed through the speakers.

  We laughed, but Joanna frowned. Fortunately, Mandi, who’d been watching the scene, swept Joanna away towards Greg the chiropractor.

  ‘S club 7?’ I asked Nick when we were alone.

  ‘You’re not exactly in a position to comment, after all, it is being played at your event.’

  I held my hands up, though not in time to the song. ‘The DJ insisted we give the crowd what they want.’ I pointed to the dance floor, which was a mess of writhing limbs.

  I turned back to Nick. ‘So, about your wine collection? Apparently Bordeaux is the wife and Burgundy is the Mistress. Could you commit to one?’

  ‘I’m a Bordeaux man through and through,’ he said, slipping his arm around my waist and then kissing me gently on the lips. The tingle shot from my mouth to my toes.

  Suddenly, realising I was adopting the awkward gait of a baby giraffe, I pulled away, and then looked at my watch as though I had somewhere to be. He took my hand.

  ‘Better leave you to get back to work, but I’ll see you for dinner on Saturday?’ he asked, eyes fixed on mine. ‘Anything you don’t eat?’

  ‘Olives,’ I answered, aware that I had just agreed to a date.

  ‘Damn, that rules out the all-you-can-eat olive buffet then.’

  I giggled and then watched him walk away, realising that Caro was right. He did have a cute butt.

  Dragging my eyes and thoughts back to the party, I noticed Jeremy slumped at the bar, clearly feeling the effects of his tequila binge. Then my gaze shifted to a girl beside him and her familiar high ponytail. It was Victoria. I hadn’t even noticed her arrive, but there she was, her ample chest bursting out of a blood-red Dolce & Gabbana tube dress. I realised that this wasn’t going to end well at all.

  I walked towards them and Victoria’s eyes tore through me like a laser through flesh.

  ‘Jeremy, can I have a word?’ I asked.

  ‘Um, excuse me, Ellie. I would prefer it if you didn’t interrupt, we were having a conversation.’

  She turned away from me, shoving her sharp elbow into my ribs.

  ‘It won’t take a second,’ I said, grabbing Jeremy by the arm and then leading him back to the sofa, which then swallowed him up like a Venus fly trap.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I asked.

  He picked up a cushion and studied it intently. ‘Are these things multiplying?’ he slurred and then tossed it at William and Mitzi on the neighbouring sofa. Then he threw another. Then another. ‘Don’t do it, she’ll break your heart!’ he shouted as they shielded themselves from the onslaught.

  ‘You know this could ruin things with Harriet,’ I said, removing the fourth cushion from his grasp.

  ‘What, cushion throwing?’

  ‘No. Victoria.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Her. The one in red. With the tits.’

  ‘Oh yes.’ He nodded vaguely.

  ‘She’s Harriet’s friend, you know?’

  ‘It’s already ruined. There’s no going back. He collapsed back down on the sofa. ‘She’s made herself clear.’

  ‘You’re drunk. Just don’t do anything stupid, okay?’

  I looked into his eyes, hoping to reach through the tequila glaze, but before I could say anything else, Victoria strutted over, wedged her bottom between us, and thrust her bouncy boobs in his face.

  There wasn’t much else I could do. The rest was up to him.

  ‘She’s a piece of work,’ sneered Mia.

  ‘We have to stop her!’ Mandi shrieked. ‘Jeremy loves Harriet not her. And what about their puppy? Rusty Junior, he needs a stable home.’ Mandi’s arms flapped wildly as Victoria leaned forward to kiss Jeremy. ‘Ellie, do something!’

  I shook my head. ‘David Attenborough can’t stop a lion from killing a baby antelope. Sometimes we just have to let these things play out.’ I said, though more to convince myself than anyone else.

  Mia pulled Mandi’s mask down as if to shield her from the scene.

  ‘I hope he throws up in her mouth,’ she said before leading Mandi away.

  Chapter Twelve

  ‘How could he do this to me?’ Harriet asked between snotty, rather undignified sobs. ‘Two days after we split. And he just goes out and sleeps with, shags…’ her voice was getting louder, ‘…pokes, bangs…’ louder still…‘ sticks his penis in another woman, like I meant nothing to him. How could he?’

  I took the phone away from my ear and stared at it. This wasn’t the Harriet I had previously met, who was so poised, elegant and controlled.

  ‘Right, let’s rewind a bit,’ I said, wondering if the lion had actually killed the antelope. ‘Have you spoken to Jeremy?’

  ‘No and I never will again.’

  ‘So how do you know he slept with Victoria?’

  ‘She told me. This morning, she called. She said she thought it best I know.’

  ‘Best you know?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did she say?’

  ‘That you set it all up at the party last night – said they would be a great match.’

  ‘Oh really.’

  After an accusation had been made, the defence always seemed less plausible than the lie itself. It was as though the one who got in first had the advantage. I went on to explain what really happened, but Harriet dismissed it.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not angry with you,’ she said. ‘If he loved me then he wouldn’t have done it.’

  ‘If you loved him, you wouldn’t have ended it.’

  She sniffed, but did not reply.

  ‘So why did you?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter why. None of it matters anymore.’

  Her sobs rapidly escalated and then suddenly the line went dead.

  I imagined Harriet with her eyes red and swollen, her caramel-coloured hair stuck to her face, her cheeks wet with tears, and I felt restless. I tapped my fingers on the table with one hand and held a pen in my mouth with the other, my bare toes kneading the rug below. I would call it burnt orange chenille, but Matthew insisted it was baby-poo shagpile. Could the truth could ever be real or was it just a product of our flawed perception?

  When my jaw clamped down on my pen and snapped it in two, I decided to call Victoria. It went straight to voicemail, the haughty tone of her message incensing me further.

  ‘Victoria, it’s Ellie. If you wish to continue using the service, meet me at the club. 4pm.’

  Then, I lobbed the broken pen in the bin and dialled Jeremy’s number, satisfied that it was still early enough to punish his hangover.

  ‘Morning Ellie,’ came the muffled voice down the line.

  ‘How’s the head?’

  ‘It hurts.’

  ‘Self-inflicted pain doesn’t warrant sympathy,’ I replied sharply.

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So, what?’

  ‘So, Victoria?’ I was getting impatient.

  There was silence on the other end of the line.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he replied eventually.

  ‘Oh come on. The truth please.’

  ‘That is the truth.’

  ‘Victoria told Harriet you slept together.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Harriet is devastated.’

  ‘I didn’t sleep with her. Why would she say that?’

  Because she’s an evil girl-hating-relationship-thwarting-man-stealing-big-breasted bitchpants? ‘I don’t know why, Jeremy, I’m not a mind reader.’

  ‘I shouldn’t have left
with her. I’m never drinking again.’

  ‘You left with her?’

  ‘As far as I’m aware, “Thou shalt not share a taxi” isn’t listed as one of the Ten Commandments.’

  I forced a laugh. ‘And then?’

  ‘She prised her way into my flat,’ he conceded.

  ‘What, with a monkey wrench?’

  ‘You know what I mean.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘And then nothing.’

  ‘Nothing?’

  ‘Have you ever considered a career in the military?’

  ‘Don’t answer a question with a question,’ I snapped.

  ‘For the last time. Noth-ing. Happ-ened.’

  ‘So you put the kettle on and shared a nice pot of tea?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘So what exactly?’

  He sighed. ‘Promise me you won’t tell Harriet.’

  ‘I promise.’

  ‘It’s all a bit vague. I was drunk.’

  ‘I noticed.’

  ‘Before I say anything else, you have to believe me, nothing happened.’

  ‘Okay, I believe you.’

  Ten minutes later, Jeremy had relayed a confusing encounter involving a surprise erection, a distressed Rusty Junior and a threatened photograph posting on Facebook.

  ‘I still don’t understand how she got a photo of your, er, thing?’

  ‘She unlocked the toilet door. With her hair clip or something. I’d been in there for ages, trying to wee with this ridiculous hard-on.’

  ‘And then she just took a photo?’

  ‘First the dog burst in, barking and growling at it, as though it were an intruder. Then she followed with her phone and then flash.’

  ‘She definitely got a photo?’

  ‘I think so. She said if I didn’t call her today, she would post it online.’

  I scratched my head.

  ‘How am I going to explain this to Harriet when I don’t even understand it myself. I mean, it was huge. The biggest it’s ever been. It’s only just started to go down now.’

  ‘Okay Jeremy, too much information.’

  The conversation ended with Jeremy vowing to win Harriet back and adamant that honesty was the only precursor to forgiveness.

  I stood up and paced around the flat. Framed by cheap pine, my reflection stared back at me. I moved in for a closer look. My hair was beyond what could pass for tousled, there were two deep creases between my brows. My skin looked grey and my eyes were bloodshot. My thoughts moved onto Nick and our date tomorrow night. Strange scenarios started running through my mind as I wondered if last night, he too had been sporting a freakishly large hard-on in the presence of a sexpot with perfect breasts. Or, if he had remained loyal to me in thought and action since we’d met? I was beginning to understand that the idealism of love and the brutality of truth were not compatible, yet there seemed to be an irresistible urge to merge the two. To force them together like a bad Hollywood plot.

  Pulling my hair up into a ponytail, hoping it might give me cheekbones like Victoria, I sucked in my tummy and stuck out my chest. Uninspired by the result, I attempted a few half-hearted sit-ups, a couple of bottom-lifting exercises and then gave up, moving back to the coffee table where my laptop whirred and groaned, as though it were complaining that it lacked the capacity to receive any more information. I opened my inbox to find it was full of emails about last night’s ball.

  There was a girl. She was wearing a dress. I didn’t get her number, do you know her?

  I forwarded it to Mandi.

  I didn’t meet anyone I liked, can I have a refund?

  I forwarded that to Mia.

  I lost my mask, do you have it?

  No but there’s a pink one I could give you.

  Moving down the list with ruthless efficiency, my flow was interrupted by a ray of light reflected on the screen. I blinked and when I opened my eyes, an email from Mandi had arrived, the copy pink and bold, flashing hearts framing the text.

  To: Ellie

  From: Mandi

  Subject: Scary Mia

  Hi Ellie,

  Hope you’re having a wonderful day! I am on such a high after last night. I’m so excited about the people I’ve matched. I really think, for many of them, it was love at first sight! Anyway, I’ll update you at our meeting tomorrow but for now, I just wanted to mention that I think Mia scared some of the guests last night. Just wanted to share my thoughts with you. No secrets with me. I’m as open as a book! Open mind, open heart.

  Spread the love!

  Mandi

  Xxxxxxxxxxxxx

  The light faded, a black cloud moved across the sun and another email arrived in quick succession.

  To: Ellie

  From: Mia

  Subject: Fairy annoying

  The business has real potential. But Mandi is doing my head in – I can’t work with her.

  Mia

  I puffed out my cheeks and rapped my fingers on the table. It had been naive of me to think they would work well together. After all, they were more Tom and Jerry than Richard and Judy, but individually they both had clear strengths. A bit like the contradiction within my own mind, I decided, given that I was still idealistic but now from my experiences also part-cynic.

  ‘If I can resolve their differences then perhaps I could resolve my own,’ I explained to Matthew after I called him for advice.

  ‘Have you been reading those self-help books again?’

  ‘Here I am, trying to better myself and resolve my inner conflict, and all you do is take the piss.’

  ‘That’s what I do, remember.’

  ‘Fair point. So, any advice?’

  ‘Champagne silk.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

  ‘Sorry, picking a tie.’

  ‘A tie?’

  ‘For the wedding.’

  ‘Oh, right. Were you going to send me a Post-it note?’

  ‘Yes, already sent. So, back to fairy and scary.’

  I laughed. ‘What should I do?’

  ‘Let them fight it out.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Two extreme views generally settle in the centre somewhere eventually.’

  ‘Yeah, that’s worked really well in the Middle East.’

  ‘Trust me, scary will soften and fairy will harden.’

  ‘Do you know how dodgy that sounds?’

  He sighed. ‘Call Cordelia.’

  ‘I have – she’s not answering.’

  ‘To the left.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s a guy between my legs with a tape measure. Can I call you back?’

  When the line went dead, I stared at the laptop screen until an email from Cordelia arrived, then I stared at the screen for a little longer, until I had plucked up the courage to open it.

  To: Ellie

  From: Cordelia

  Subject: Dr Stud?

  Dr Dud more like. Worst date of my life. You are in serious trouble.

  C x

  Usually offering three kisses, she had trimmed it down to one. The last time that happened was when she thought I’d slept with her boyfriend. Not good. It seemed bad matchmaking was a crime equal to a betrayal of the worst kind. The sooner I got the hang of it, the better for all concerned.

  Cordelia finally returned my call just as I was walking to the club.

  ‘His hands were everywhere,’ she explained. ‘Despite the fact that we’d been in a public place and I’d remained fully clothed, it still felt as though he’d given me a full internal examination by the end of the evening.’

  ‘And what is his problem with women: “They belong in the kitchen or, if they’re naughty, sometimes in the basement”?’

  ‘He was joking.’

  ‘Was he?’

  ‘He has an off-the-wall sense of humour.’

  ‘Based on his deep-seated beliefs that women are inferior and only there to entertain and serve him.’

  ‘I think you’re ove
r-reacting. He’s very sweet when you get to know him.’

  ‘No thanks. Anyway, Harry and I have been talking.’ She paused. ‘And … I’ve decided to move to Spain with him.’

  Following a lengthy debate about whether, given her family history of melanoma, it would be wise for her to move so many degrees closer to the equator, I shrugged my shoulders and conceded. We settled on the promise of quarterly visits and weekly phone-calls.

  After I’d hung up the phone, I marched towards the club. The Edwardian townhouses flashed past in my peripheral vision, estate agent signs tied to their railings. The residents of London seemed as transient as the clouds in the sky. Someone had added an “i” between “To” and “Let” on one of the signs and I wondered how many smiles it would evoke, before it was wiped off or washed away.

  Before heaving open the door to the club, I checked my phone and saw a text from Caro:

  We’ve been reposted to Iraq. Leaving tomorrow! Good-bye drinks tonight? Xxx

  We? Since when did such couple-centred terminology, commonly reserved for announcing pregnancy, expand to encompass that of military command?

  Deserter x

  I texted back, adopting a Cordelia-style “withdrawal of kisses when offended” approach. How could she leave me at this critical juncture? And what was with these sudden life-changing decisions? Were we all simultaneously experiencing some kind of early onset mid-life crisis? I’d abandoned a respectable career to pursue international recognition as a professional matchmaker. Cordelia had quit her equally respectable job to live with her inconsistent boyfriend at his mum’s beach flat in Spain. And now, Caro, chasing her military-clad toyboy into the aftermath of a war against, well we weren’t quite sure so let’s call it “terror”. At least Matthew was behaving like a normal person: marrying his adorable fiancée at an appropriate age. But, for all I knew, he could have been writing a Post-it note that very moment, explaining that instead, he was moving to Bangkok to live as a ladyboy and that the tailor had been measuring him for a champagne silk minidress.

  Victoria strutted down the staircase, wearing camel-coloured trousers and a tight cashmere jumper, her trademark ponytail swinging almost triumphantly. She looked like the cat that got the cream, or had stolen someone else’s cream. In fact, the expression in her eyes seemed a bit catty. Catty, catty cream-stealing bitchpants.